CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Mary lounged into the deep comfort of the wingback chair. She gazed at the papers upon her desk, recalling what she had dared to write upon them. The horror of her waking nightmare had finally been exhumed into her own world, been given a face, been given a voice. He had been brought out of the shadows. He was now real, and she knew she was responsible—completely and utterly responsible for the horror and pain he was about to inflict on those around him before her story was done.
